
OHO* 


PINIONS 

BY 

JAY G. SIGMUND 


<0ISiSB!0GBS330RaraE3 










Copyright N°__ 


CjDPYRIGHT deposit. 











PINIONS 


BY 

JAY G. SIGMUND 



James T. White Co. 
New York 
1923 


■PS 352,7 

.J3L VS 

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COPYRIGHT, 1923 
JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 


SEP 10 ’23 

©C1A752883 

"■ViO I 


TO 

JAMES, MARY AND JANE 

(Three Exquisite Lyrics) 


G RATEFUL acknowledgment is due the ed¬ 
itors of the following magazines and news¬ 
papers in whose pages some of the poems included 
in this volume first appeared: Des Moines Register 
and Leader, Rock Island Argus, Davenport Times, 
Cedar Rapids Republican, Cedar Rapids Gazette, 
Chicago Post, Chicago News', Baltimore Sun, Cin¬ 
cinnati Times Star, Springfield Mass. Republican, 
Boston Transcript, Pagan, Midland, Modern Re¬ 
view, Lyric, All’s Well, Lyric West, Nomad, Ca¬ 
price, Reviewer, Wm. Stanley Braithwaite’s An¬ 
thology of Magazine Verse and Dr. Frank P. 
Davis’ Anthology of Newspaper Verse. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

FIVE CORN-BELT VILLAGE PORTRAITS. 7 

TO A HARELIPPED CHILD. 9 

plowman’s chant. 10 

PASTORAL PORTRAITS . 11 

NOCTURNE-LATE WINTER . 13 

CHIMNEY SWIFT'S. 14 

CROWS . 15 

TWILIGHT IN AUTUMN. l(i 

TWO TROUBADOURS OF BACCHUS. 17 

TO A WOOD DUCK. 18 

THE GRANITE BOWLDER. 18 

THE MYSTIC RIVER-POOL. 19 

OCTOBER. 20 

SNOWSTORM CHARITY. 21 

CORN COUNTRY PAEAN. 22 

BROOKSIDE GOSSIP. 23 

DEVASTATION . 25 

TO A PURPLE MARTIN. 28 

INTERROGATIVE MOOD . 27 

MY NEIGHBOR . 28 

WINTER FOLK. 28 

AVIATORS . 29 

BEWILDERMENT . 30 

RUBBISH. 31 

TWILIGHT-EARLY MARCH. 32 

TEMPTED . 33 

DAWNS OF MARCH . 34 

SHAM. 35 

THE HOUSE OF LIVING DEAD. 38 

A RAIN SONG. 39 

THE WANDERER . 40 

SOULS . 44 

SACRED IBIS . 43 

YELLOW LOTUS . 44 

EARLY MARCH RAIN . 45 

YELLOW-BREASTED CHAT. 48 

TO A GARDEN SNAIL. 48 

MUSHROOMS . 50 

SYMBOLS OF AUTUMN . 51 

CIRCUS SIDESHOW PORTRAITS. 53 

will-o'-wisp . 54 











































CONTENTS 


Page 

AUTUMN PRELUDE . 54 

VINDICATION . 55 

GRIMACES . 55 

A SONG OF STUBBLE. 57 

FAILURES . 58 

WILLOWS IN APRIL. 60 

VERNAL PRELUDE . 62 

THE CAMEO . 62 

A GRAY-HAIREI) BARD SPEAKS . 63 

KINGDOMS FOR HORSES . 64 

TO A TOAD . 66 

THE BANKRUPT FARMER’S AUCTION. 67 

CAFE PARTY IDOL. 68 

VERNAL EQUINOX. 69 

THE LONE LINDEN. 70 

GENUS HOMO . 72 

MEDITATION . 73 

SEARCH . 74 

TO A BRIDE-ELECT . 75 

FEBRUARY . 76 

SNOW FLURRY .. 76 

FROZEN MARSH . 77 

SUN-DOGS. 77 

WANING WINTER. 78 

WHISTLES-SEVEN A.M. 79 

COLD WAVE . 80 




























FIVE CORN-BELT VILLAGE PORTRAITS 

The Station Agent 

“Me?—I came ten years ago, to fill 

The fellow’s place who worked the ‘second trick’; 

I thought I’d stay perhaps two weeks, at most, 

Just to help out, ‘cause he had taken sick 

And needed rest (he’d been here fourteen years)— 

But then he took a sudden turn and died... 

And here I am, still hanging on the job; 

They sure have got me roped here, and hog-tied; 
But still—I kind of like the place, at that! 

I might as well be in this burg, I guess, 

As any other town along the line.. . 

“The train on time?—Didn’t I just say YES?” 

* * * 

The Garage Proprietor 

“You want to leave the old bus here a day 

And let me find what makes her buck like that ? . . . 

Well if you don’t, all right—it’s up to you— 

We’ve sure got twice as much as we can do!” 

* * * 

The Senile Pioneer 

“ ‘Is this a live town?’ Well, now, mister, for its 
size, 

We do more business here in just one week 
Than most towns in these parts do in two months— 
And that’s a fact; now, you just speak 
To the banker, or ask old Dr. Roe, 

And you’ll find out what I’ve told you is SO!’ ” 


7 


The Hotel Landlord 


“Good morning, sir—and here’s the Daily Call; 

A fine morning—does a fellow good 
To look outdoors and see the old sun shine! 

Will you be here tonight? Now, what’s your line? 
You should have been here yesterday for dinner . . . 
We had chicken—say, it sure was fine!” 

* * * 

The Parson 

“Ah, yes, ‘tis true I found it somewhat dull 
When first I took this church and tried to do 
My duty in the vineyard of the Lord; 

Yet, as I labored on, I scarcely knew 

How quickly months and years could hurry past; 

Yes, I am happy, caring for my flock; 

They need me . . . and I shall remain steadfast.” 


8 


TO A HARELIPPED CHILD 


You cannot know: 

But on this world’s drab stage, 

No drama could there be, 

Delighting fool and sage, 

Were’t not for clownish puppets— 

Some young . . . some warped with age. 

So, for this play, 

Fate did an hour beguile: 

Twisting your childish mouth, 

That watching hearts the while 
Might titter at your leering . . . 

Or weep because you smile! 


9 


PLOWMAN’S CHANT. 


I polish now my plowshare, 

I mend my harness chain, 

And put a barrel ‘neath my eaves 
For April’s gift of rain. 

I’ll cut a yawning furrow 

Through stubble brown and dead 

And watch the floating thunderclouds 
Which gather overhead. 

Oh, there’s a subtle power 
That rises from plowed soil; 

It seems to give my sweating span 
New sinew for their toil! 

The sower’s sack is bulging, 

His hand will scatter seed; 

I’ll hasten with my harrow spikes 
To meet the fresh loam’s need! 


10 


PASTORAL PORTRAITS 


I. Barn-Yard Raptore 

The barn-owl, 
greedy, 
saffron-eyed, 

is cowled, like a monk! . . . 

He is hideous- 

and his baboon head, 
with its parrot beak, 
rests on a neckless trunk. 

This biped, 

gnome-like, 

devil-winged, 

gibbers like a fool! . . . 

And a sparrow chirps- 

seeking safety in flight, 
when the grey night-fog 
lets down its chilling drool. 

He ventures, 
brazen, 
talon-toed, 

to the hay-stack’s slope. 

But with new dawn’s birth, 

seeks the cattle-shed’s gloom, 
there to sit hunch-backed 
and on a rafter mope! 


11 


II. Barn-Yard Serf 

The chore-boy, 
stupid, 

plodding home, 
is a huge grey clod. 

Though he palpitates 

with the pulse of life, 
he is wrought of clay, 
shaped in the form of God. 

At sunset, 
sweaty, 
muscle-stiff, 
he forsakes his plow. 

From his pursed-up lips, 

float organ-note calls- 

luring to stanchion, 
the heavy-uddered cow. 

The stair-way, 
creaking, 
feels his boot, 
when the bat dips low. 

And the witch of night, 

seals his dust-parched lids, 

until morn invites 

the Cochin’s throaty crow! 


12 


NOCTURNE—LATE WINTER. 


There comes the barn-owl’s chuckle 
From the cattle-shed; 

The doves are huddled in their cote. 

The dead sun has hidden 
Its hot-iron red, 

And the sulphur moon begins to float. 

I hear the silken rustle 
Of a sparrow’s wings; 

It flutters in the fodder stack. 

And the far off baying 
Of a beagle rings, 

As he nuzzles a rabbit’s fresh track. 

The tired farmer dozes 

While his pipe’s cold crust 
Waits for an ember from the grate. 

Though his plow and harrow 
Wear thick coats of rust, 

For them the brown fields still smile and wait 


13 


CHIMNEY SWIFTS 


At twilight looms the tall smoke-stack, 

In stark relief against the sky; 

A giant finger pointing overhead 
To cloud crafts sailing by. 

As leaves by whirl-winds tossed and swirled 
Above this tower’s yawning lips 

A swarm of air-sprites soon will pirouette, 
Like tiny brown-winged ships. 

And as by hundreds they descend 
Into its sooty, gaping mouth, 

They rest like mariners on platform bunks, 
And chatter of the south. 

When icy winter reigns supreme 

And coal-dust smears the billowed drifts, 

I’ll pine for springtime like a lovesick swain . 
And sigh for chimney swifts! 


14 


CROWS 


A swaying black procession 
From wooded copse and plain, 

Is moving to the tinted west, 

As even comes again. 

Their silence is uncanny: 

This sombre raven crowd 
Seems strangely stricken: half afraid 
To cry their woes aloud. 

Voiceless till mom’s red breaking, 

Silent their rasping call .... 

Do crows, like men, have solemn thoughts 
When dusk begins to fall? 


15 


TWILIGHT IN AUTUMN 


All through the day the sullen clouds have 
drooled . . . 

Dumb playthings of the tardy equinox; 

The wind’s last sobbing breath draws faint—slow 
cooled 

With threats of mad Squaw Winter; dull corn- 
shocks 

Stand stark and stiff, like tepees in a row, 
Rain-soaked and drab—robbed of all after-glow. 

A flock of brants goes winging through the sky, 
Sharp fretted, like birds painted on a screen: 

Their shrill and raucous scoldings wafted high: 

A sage w 7 hite gander leading—forging keen 
As some swift arrow through the heavy gloom, 
Which spreads before them like a darkened room. 

The master painter leaves his flaming touch 
On spangled hill-side and on tasseled copse: 

The patient fields endow us over much— 

Our bins bulge fatly with safe-garnered crops: 

And yet . . . afar stalks Famine, open-jawed . . . 
While Autumn flirts her finery abroad! 


16 


TWO TROUBADOURS OF BACCHUS 


PAUL VERLAINE 

He only asked a day to sing, 

Nor cared to have that day be long 
In which he gave the somber world— 
His absinthe tinted song! 

Earth listened while this shackled bard 
Fondled his lute with master hands— 
And tho he finished soon . . . his notes 
Went winging thru all lands. 


ERNEST DOWSON 

Stopping a moment on his way 
Beauty enthralled him; paused his feet 
At the grave’s brink ... a cup he quaffed, 
Even the dregs were sweet! 

And when his draught was drunk came peace 
Brooding soft o’er him like a dove; 

Then from his dreaming heart rose high, 
Paeans that were born of love. 


17 


TO A WOOD DUCK 


When faring forth to seek elusive beauty, 

I do not read a musty volume’s page; 

Nor do I scan o’er chiseled ode and sonnet— 
Neither find joy in pigments dim with age. 

But light of step I haunt birch-fretted shallows, 
Where I may glimpse you with your clan at rest ; 
Then drink my fill at beauty’s mystic fountain— 
Watching the spectrum of your burnished crest! 


THE GRANITE BOWLDER 

Long has a mute parade of marching years 
Passed by, while on your lichen-spattered face 
There seems to rest a leer, deep chiseled in— 

A wan, bent smile, which marks the crooked trace 
That glacial ice has made, in ages gone; 

And left for stupid man to ponder on. 

And tho’ keen barbs of steel are piercing deep 
Into your stony flanks, to cleave in twain 
Your granite breadth, and tho’ a hammer falls, 

Yet are these efforts to efface in vain; 

Strong you may rise, and on some churchyard hill— 
Speak for this very one who wields his drill! 


18 


THE MYSTIC RIVER-POOL 


The green heron, 
silent, 

moping on orange-colored stilts, 
knows much 
river-pool lore; 
he is my class-mate. 

He is possessed 

of infinite wisdom, 

and knows the mysterious secrets 

of all the tiny water-folk. 

Why do shells of crawfish 
redden among the rocks, 
while tracks of the ring-tailed raccoon, 
like hieroglyphics, 
write epics in black ooze? 

Where do the oval blue-gill 

and the rune-shelled mussel 
spend their afternoons . . . 
when yellow birch shadows 
darken the placid pool? 

What of the little water-spider 
(like some Ganges raftsman) 
with leaden eyes, 
and a body 

brown as rotting wood ? 

Sit and angle, yokel! 

doze under your straw-thatch 
and drool over your pipe-stem, 
dreaming only of fish 
sizzling on red coals! . . . 


19 


But the green heron and I 
will find content . . . 
large content . . . 

In the sweet silences, 
gathering endless lore 
of the tiny river-folk. 


OCTOBER 


Purring of voice, 

soft and clinging of touch, 
you trip lightly 
on red and gold 
sandaled 
feet . . . 

Few would suspect you— 
much less accuse you— 
of being a vampire 
lavish 
of pseudo 
kisses. 

But I know you 

as a dual personality, 
a saint and devil combination, 
a sensual 
designing 
hussy! . . . 


20 


For vivid are memories, 

of times when you won me 
with your mellow, seductive, sunshine: 
only to throw me— 
when you tired of my embraces— 
into the clutching, cold arms 
of your hand-maid, 
that blustering hag, 

Squaw Winter! . . . 


SNOWSTORM CHARITY 

To-night the sharp-tongued north wind is a nervous 
nagging shrew, 

And I must chink my window frames lest snow 
come sifting through; 

Then put my front door latchstring out, and spread 
my table, too. 

On such a night as this I’d gladly take a 
vicious cur, 

Whose master was my enemy, and dry his storm- 
drenched fur; 

Yes, though he bit me, he might lie and hear my 
kettle’s purr! 

When blizzards howl like this I’m always yielding 
in my heart; 

But on the morrow faring forth to tramp man’s 
busy mart 

My plaster mask again I’ll wear to play my 
puppet part! 


21 


CORN COUNTRY PAEAN 


Wide-eyed, the sullen-visaged Sac and Sioux, 
Watched the robed priest and virile son of soil 
On their chaste prairies—strong of faith set foot— 
To bless with crucifix and sweating toil. 

Snorting with fear, the shaggy buffalo 
Fled o’er the waste, in mad stampeding flocks; 
Seeming to sense that their fast thinning ranks 
Must pass, to make room for the patient ox. 

Then did the blades of growing corn unfurl, 
Waving where bright marsh marigold had bloomed; 
And in each place where camp-fire’s smoke had 
wreathed, 

White churches with high spired belfries loomed. 

On marched the solemn pageant of the years, 

Each with it’s blessings from the lap of God; 
‘Till now a people mighty in their strength— 

At last have risen from the virgin sod! 

Yes; giants in their massive rugged might— 

Yet as they gathered power from these plains, 
They likewise garnered gentleness and grace, 

From prairie flowers . . . and the kiss of rains! 


22 


BROOKSIDE GOSSIP 


The tiny water-thrush, 
precise and prim 
in her polka-dot apron, 
is, after all, 
a nagging little shrew. 

A neurotic housewife, 
she never ceases 
the St. Vitus twitchings 
of her restless little body: 
the while 
harassing 

with industrious fault-finding 
her hen-pecked mate. 

All the sultry day 

he toils like a Chinese coolie, 
bringing moss and lichen 
with which to build a snug retreat 
‘neath the birch-tree’s roots: 

And he is rewarded 

by shrill scoldings 

from Madame’s sharp tongue! . . . 

Worse than this . . . 

when that bird-policeman, 
the Blue Jay, 

(his crony) 

stops for a harmless chat, 

Monsieur Water Thrush 
is invariably humilated 
by Madame’s outbursts 
of temper! 


23 


And should he dare to pause 
in his arduous tasks 
for a moment’s breathing-spell, 
her eyes flash swift fury . . . 
like lightning on jet beads. 

Later in the summer, 

when he must needs forage all day 
to fill gaping young beaks, 
he is outrageously criticised 
by the entire family. 

Even this he might endure, 

were it not for the soft chucklings 
and sly nods and grins 
of feathered neighbors— 
the Towhees and the Chats . . . 
aristocrats, bird nabobs . . . 
who can afford to spend their time 
in foolish luxury! 

But the last straw 

is when the chattering Fox Squirrel 

brazenly adds his taunts 

and bitter insults: 

this from the burr-oak tree . . . 

within full hearing 

of the whole 

brookside 

populace! . . . 


24 


DEVASTATION 


My plowshare cuts black loam. 
Disturbing each wee home 
Of glossy meadow-vole 
Or busy, snouted mole. 

It spoils the horned lark’s nest, 

The woodchuck’s den is lost; 

The gopher leaves his bed — 

Nor counts the bites it cost. 

These tiny field folk fly, 

A cruel monster, I! . . . 

I frighten, maim and slay — 
Throughout my plodding day. 

The need for winter bread 

Has kept my trace chains taut; 
Yet I am sick of soul 

Because of ruin wrought. 

Again will I find rest, 

When Summer at her best 
Decks orchard trees with fruit 
And wakes the bunting’s flute. 

My ground friends with their young 
Will know a wheat-shock roof; 
Or hide their burrows far 

From plow and stamping hoof! 


25 


TO A PURPLE MARTIN 


I saw the royal purple, 

Of your nuptial cloak; 

I watched your gull-like pinions 
Waft you into blue-sky seas: 

High above brick chimneys, 

With their zones of grime and smoke— 
You float, while your metal notes 
Tinkle on the breeze. 

The dingy coated sparrow, 

Stills his bragging voice; 

He is dazed by the splendor 
Of your plum-stain, satin vest: 

A hawk screams with terror, 

Sudden flight now seems: his choice— 
As he dives in that afterglow 
Which rose-tints the West. 

You fear not man or devil, 

Though a friendly sprite; 

You watch your plodding neighbors 
From your man-made cottage there: 
Yet, I’ve heard you calling 
With the morn’s first hint of light— 
“Life you are a joyous thing: .... 
Old Earth, you are fair!” 


26 



INTERROGATIVE MOOD 

The mushroom’s spawn is cold, 

It needs a sunbeam’s grasp; 

Or rain to warm that mold, 

Which rots by elm or asp: 

Will it take the blue-bell’s bloom— 

To coax it from black gloom? 

May Apple should unfurl, 

Her dark green parasol; 

Then with rare tints of pearl, 

Would her chaste petals fall: 

Must the wood-thrush sound his pipe— 
Before her fruit be ripe? 

Vain Towhee picks no stems, 

Or wild-grape fibre strings; 

His sharp eyes flash like gems, 

He flaunts his robe and sings: 

Must the leaves of linden start— 

Ere bird-love finds his heart? 


27 


MY NEIGHBOR 


My neighbor’s lawyer writes his will. 
His parson bids him pray; 

While I go humming lilting tunes 
Or sing some frothy lay. 

He stakes himself a church-yard lot, 
And hoards up flakes of gold; 

He asks me to remember I 
Will soon be bent and old. 

But still I search for orchid buds, 
Weeds choke my maize and rye; 

My neighbor sagely shakes his head 
When he goes plodding by! 


WINTER FOLK 

The cotton-tail, in billowed drifts 
Leaves deep his snow-shoe track; 

The junco in his dusky garb, 

With joy I welcome back; 

The meadow vole forsakes the field 
To seek the millet-stack. 

Pert blue-jays in policeman coats 
Patrol the leafless oak; 

The horned lark in the pasture lot 
Appears in sombre cloak. . . . 

Ah, I am lavish of my love 

With these small Winter folk! 


28 


AVIATORS 


The North Wind 
Speeds down the timbered glen, 
Like some grizzled aviator 
With palsied hands; 

Unsteady at the wheel, 

Yet reckless as he is daring. 

A great flock of grackles 
With dusky coats, 

Leave the earth. 

Squeaking like the hinges 
Of a swinging door. 

Leaves of the elm and oak, 
Saturated with wanderlust, 

Seize this chance 
To fly 

From mothering trees. 

They tremble with excitement— 
Then fling themselves 
Among the rusty grackles; 
Masquerading as birds, 

To follow 

The palsied pilot! 


29 


BEWILDERMENT 


It appears that I face 
An overwhelming dilemma: 

Loquacious expounders 
Of Asiatic legend 
Thunder at me mightily 
Of a certain fierjr pit 
Yawning hungrily 
To receive me; 

They suggest 

There is one alternative 

One only: 

I may escape 
By mingling 

With them and their kind. 

It puzzles me: 

How choose 

Between damnation and damnation? 


30 


RUBBISH 


Today 

I watched a toothless hag 
Groping feverishly 
With a hooked iron rod, 

In the foul refuse 
Of the city’s dump. 

Her frayed garments 

And her swallow countenance 

Harmonized weirdly 

With her surroundings . . . 

As the color of a worm 
Matches old wood. 

Her shriveled lips 
Bore a cynical sneer, 

Like the grin 
Of a drying corpse. 

And constantly she muttered, 

As she jabbed this way and that, 
“Why is it . . . 

Men always cast aside 
That of which they tire? . . . 
While woman hide it 
To cry over? . . 


31 


TWILIGHT—EARLY MARCH 


The west now tinged with afterglow 
Flares bright like burnished brass; 

And pools the snowdrifts left behind 
Flood deep the pasture grass. 

Like missiles from a catapult 
Or darts from taut bowstrings, 

A flock of widgeon veering past 
Sound flute notes with swift wings. 

A muskrat near his flag-thatched home 
Is feeding in the slough, 

Where sunshine gnawed the ice away 
To let the ripples through. 

There is a promise in the breeze, 

With perfumes mild and sweet; 

Rare odors from new buds atone 
For days of ice and sleet! 


32 


TEMPTED 

The tempter’s voice 
Is very insistent 
Today. 

I cannot help listening . . . 
(And then, I want to listen!) 
Shall I yet yield 
To his pleadings? . . . 

My irreproachable family 
(All of them deceased), 

And my physician 
(A most learned individual), 
Together with my pastor 
(A saintly scholar), 

Have warned me often 
Against most of the things 
For which 

I have felt any real attraction. 

Until today, 

I have dutifully heeded 
Their admonitions. 

But: 

A week ago 
My physician died, 

Aged forty: 

Yesterday 

My pastor became involved 
In a horrid scandal. 

Today 

I have a mind 
To begin 
To enjoy life! 

33 


DAWNS OF MARCH 


Now floats mellow music 
With these new March dawns; 

Each young day is ushered in 
Like swift running fawns: 

Yet with all the queenly grace 
Of white feathered swans. 

A blue-bird carols softly 
When he spies the sun; 

The robin sounds his flute-notes 
Faultless every one; 

And the speckled flicker 
Jibes and scoffs .... in fun! 

And soon will mallards paddle 
In the swollen rill: 

Even though the winds of March 
Scold and threaten still; 

Each morn does the sun’s touch feel 
Warmer to the hill! 


34 


SHAM 


Once a week 

You are a changeling: 

Crossing the threshold 
Of a man-reared temple 
You go . . . 

It is your spiritual wash-day. 

Swathed in your Pharisaic garments 
Of bigotry and hypocrisy 
(Careful draperies, 

Worn with a saintly smirk) 

You march in state 

To a well-upholstered pew, 

Where you kneel, monk-like, 

Muttering righteous prayers . . . 
Coming from your lips, 

These are indeed rare blasphemy! 

Between your precisely-clasped fingers, 
Peep your greedy eyes . . . 

Sensuous, speculative . . . 

Seeking future prey. 


At nightfall 

You are done with masquerading: 
On the morrow 
The world finds you 
Stalking the helpless, 

As usual. 


35 


Poor fool . . . 

Do you imagine 

That by donning special manners 
For Sunday prayers, 

You in any way deceive 
Man . . . 

Much less your God? 


THE HOUSE OF THE LIVING DEAD 

They call you an Insane Asylum: 

but I would rename you. 

I would call you 

The House of the Living Dead. 

Because of those within you, 
whose bodies still pulse 
with the red tide of life . . . 
yet being mental corpses. 

How you mar the gentle rhythm 
of the smiling prairies, 
with your hard, bleak walls! 

Your spires and turrets 
point heavenward, 
like those of some fabled castle; 
sweet green fields hem you in; 
and in them your people toil, 
garnering harvests 
with which to nourish 
bodies only. 


36 



Within your frowning barricades 
are more tales 
than could be found 
in all the books 
of the ages. 

Tales of loneliness, 

of endless winter days on isolated farms; 
brutal tales; 

tattered fragments of romance; 

disappointed loves; 

tales of greed and avarice; 

and the sins of fathers 

visited on helpless progeny. 

How their eyes stare out through gray space! 

Eyes sharpened by a thousand nights 
of glittering desperation! 

Your walls echo with gibberings 

curses . . . laughter . . . shrieks .... 

A hideous gallery 
where wanders 
reason gone astray. 

Today I paused to watch 
a group of your people 
as they lolled on the grass, 
gazing at a dozen hungry pigs: 
and one crazed creature 
prayed . . . 
and waited 

for some Christ to appear, 
and cast the demons of them all 
into the swine .... 


37 


How can any man boast 

of his superior intellect, 
when of every dollar 
which he earns, 

A portion must he give . . . 
that other men— 

weaker than he in only one respect- 
may be walled in 
and caged 

with these living dead . . . 
until some Christ 
shall indeed arise 
to deliver them! 

Some Christ 

who understands the perfect order 

of little shining cells— 

and can manipulate 

and piece them together 

after the Great Plan! 

So I pass 

from this House of the Living Dead . 

Is there, perchance, 

some Garden of Promise 
and Regeneration . . . 
farther down the road? 


38 


A RAIN SONG 


The plover pauses in his search 
For mollusks in the stream; 

And, nodding from his stilted height. 

Sends forth a frightened scream. 

Wee night-hawks veering through the mist, 
Indulge in croakings deep; 

While herons on the pebbly bar 
Their solemn vigils keep. 

The woodland’s feathered choir is hushed 
No note from all the throng; 

But with the passing of the rain 
Will come new feasts of song. 

Aye, sweeter will that music ring, 

Because for one brief day 

The Storm God in his fury snatched 
All loveliness away. 


39 


THE WANDERER 


A school of silver mackerel in the sky . . . 
Gray oracles, bespeak tomorrow’s rain: 

On silken sails a sprite goes veering by— 

A martin with his cloak of purple stain; 

I hear the choir of the growing wheat, 

And thrill in wonder at the bunting’s note; 

I listen with a sense of languor sweet, 

To pulsings from the vireo’s chaste throat. 

They say I am a dreamer . . . and a throng 
Are calling me an idler and a drone; 

In vain I plead that I commit no wrong, 

But only kneel before the soul’s true throne. 

I strive to show them beauty dwelling near— 
How can a deaf-blind world presume to jeer! 


4C 


SOULS 


I am not anxious 

Over the whereabouts 

Of the souls of men and women, 

Passed into some spaceless void 

From the silent temples 

Which were their clay abodes. 

Laugh if you will . . . 

But I have a strange notion 
That yon clump of trees 
Jutting the river 
And crowning a rising hill. 

Is a group of such souls . . . 
Come back to laugh 
And sing and sigh. 

See that gnarled oak: 

I have a fancy 

That it is the soul 

Of some village blacksmith: 

Those knots on its trunk 

Are like to hard lumps of muscle, 

From daily pounding of steel 

On iron anvils. 

And that graceful sycamore, 
Nude on the cliff . . . 

Is it not a school-boy 

Poised for a dive 

Into the river’s clear depths? 


41 


That elm . . . 

See how it stands, 

Proud of its chastity: 

Dignified and a little prudish . . 
Perhaps a teacher of children 
In some narrow school-room. 

I love virginal birches: 

White birches . . . 

Souls of nuns 
Murmuring prayers. 

When I have need 
Of spiritual purging. 

I shall mingle with trees, 

Rather than with verbose bigots* 
For I have a notion 
That trees are souls . . . 
Pushing heavenward 
From the sod. 


42 


SACRED IBIS 


They carved your image on a tomb, 
In Egypt, long ago; 

And monarch, priest and potentate 
Before you bended low. 

Today I watch you in a zoo— 

A captive like the rest: 

And curious folk drift in to stare, 
And pass you with a jest. 

And thus it is: the favored one 
Placed on some shrine today, 
Tomorrow may in exile fare . . . 
His feet but common clay. 


43 


YELLOW LOTUS 


Your place is in the Orient— 

How chance you to be here? 

Your mystic beauty does not blend 
With these surroundings drear. 

You should bedeck the brooding Nile, 
Or fret the Ganges shore. 

You are like souls of yellow men 
Come back to earth once more. 

You lend a charmed, mysterious air 
To this bleak Northern clime; 

I gaze at you, and dream I hear 
The temple-bells a-chime. 

E’en in this crowded city park, 

The visions flame and flare . . . 

I am a sultan on a throne, 

My kingdom rich and fair. 

Aye, all my pilgrims gather here 
To bless your saffron bloom, 

And praise the gods who fashioned you 
To light terrestrial gloom! 


44 


EARLY MARCH RAIN 


All day the clouds were sullen, 
And now the road-side pool 
Is stirred by falling rain-spikes, 
That from dull skies drool. 

The wind is cross and fretful— 
The river’s bosom swirls; 

I hear a blue-bill’s pinions 
As through the mist he whirls. 

The cattle stand and shiver 
Within their leaking shed; 

But wet fields mutely promise 
The wheat for winter bread! 


45 


YELLOW-BREASTED CHAT 


Would you be royally entertained 
By a gayer buffoon 
Than ever brought mirth 
To a monarch? 

Would you be charmed 
By a delightful comedian 
Singing a lilting roundelay, 

And chortling a clown-bird’s laughing song 
Of spaced staccato; 

A scintillating intermezzo of biped organ notes 
A cascade of chuckles, giggles and scoldings 
From the saffron throat 
Of a clever vaudevillian? 

Chat is the court jester’s name; 

Yellow vested star. 

Of the cut-over timber’s Hill Stage. 

Be seated 

On this drab elm-stump opera chair 
Behind this curtain of hazel! 

See, behind the Black Eyed Susan foot-lights 
The supreme comedian 
And mimic extraordinary 
Awaits his cue! 

He balances deftly on the top branch 
Of a scrub oak. 

Now he starts 

His pirouette of guffaws, 

And continues his act 
Until his listeners feel 


46 


They should join with him 
In maniacal laughter, 

And ape his gymnastics, 

Swaying to the rhythms 

Of his melodious vers libre satire. 

The orchestra is comme il faut, 

With ruby-throat, bee, and cicada dronings, 
And bass of bull-frog from nearby brook. 

How lovely are the settings .... 

Oak and elm green 
Fretted with linden bloom, 

And blue-sky filigree. 

His mate, 

Abashed, yet still proud of her jazz musician, 
Watches with black hat-pin head eyes. 

From her nest in a ragged hawthorne bush. 

Yellow Chat, 

I am indeed sorry 

That your audience is small! 

I can think of many 

Who should attend your program .... 
Snobs, bores, bigots, braggarts, 

Cads, verbose nonentities, 

Prigs, shammers, pretenders; 

All these and many others 
Would see themselves burlesqued 
By your marvelous work, 

And might profit thereby! 


47 


Yellow-Breasted Chat, 

You are a rare artist, 

A superb imitator, 

Of man in his ecstatic moods . . . 
Of man in his asininity . . . 

Of man the egotist . . . 

And man the fool! 


TO A GARDEN-SNAIL 


Nay, 

I shall not tread on you, 

Sluggish one. 

You may safely proceed 
With your leisurely meanderings 
Down the dew-flecked garden-path, 
For all of me. 

However, 

For you I entertain 
A profound understanding: 

And, in consequence, 

I step carefully 

Over your little, up-curled form, 
So that I leave you 
Unharmed. 

For in my own odd journeyings 
Down life’s stony pathway, 

Often have I been rudely jostled 
And shoved aside 


48 


To make room for some fleeter traveler . . . 

And often have I feared 
The crushing heedlessness 
Of flying feet. 

But more alike are we 
In another respect: 

Your journey is very short . . . 

Yet to you it seems long 
And important: 

To me also, my journey appears long 
And of vast import . . . 

Yet in the great scheme of things 
It is ridiculously brief. 

Snail, 

We are much alike, 

You and I: 

And there are a million others like us 
On life’s highway: 

All dreaming that they are creatures of the sun . . 
When they are only slow and ugly 
And tragically small! . . . 


49 


MUSHROOMS 


Mushrooms, 

You spring 

Like ivory ornaments 

From damp mold, 

Rotting debris, 

Dead leaves 
And other rubbish. 

Yet. 

You are a delight 
To epicures; 

A choice morsel 
To fastidious ladies. 

I see men 
In high places, 

Who first saw light 
In log cabins .... 

So I do not despise 

Any mold or rubbish. 

Knowing that these oft-times grow 
Mushrooms .... 


50 




SYMBOLS OF AUTUMN 


When mellow red-haws 
gather carmine tints, 
and cloistered 
J ack-in-the-pulpit 
is replaced 
by seed clusters 
like ears of maize, 
reddening . . . 

When pied sora rail 

with yellow-wax beaks, 

and willow stilt legs, 

again skulk 

among reeds, 

and red-wing blackbirds 

assemble 

in chattering conclaves. 

If you observe, by chance, 
sleek brown muskrats 
cleaving the pond 
as tiny barges, 
leaving ripples 
that spread 
like giant calipers: 

Busy furred householders 
husbanding arrowroot, 
and thatching leaky domiciles 
with flag shingles: 


51 


Know you then, Neophyte, 
by these signs, 
that frost fingers 
are itching, 
preparing to touch, 
and blast, 
with pseudo 
caresses. 

Yet grieve not 

for summer’s pastels 
of rose and emerald. 

For soon now 

will a master painter 
spread rare pigments 
on copse and hill! . . . 


52 


CIRCUS SIDESHOW PORTRAITS 
The Ticket Seller 

‘Tis time for you to mount your stand, and gaze 
At jostling folk who gawk and stretch like cranes: 
An army of blank faces, dead-fish stares . . . 

A pot-pourri of yokels, housewives, swains : 

You move this motley crowd as one who plays 
At chess, or rattles dice within a cup: 

Ah, well you know ‘tis childhood’s holiday . . . 
That all men are but children half grown up. 

* 

The Fat Lady 

You wear a cynic’s grin because you know 
That bulk and breadth bring pity from the lean: 
And, like the mammoth of the buried past, 

You stay aloof with stony-visaged mien. 

You wonder why, when flesh was meted out. 

Your figure clothed itself with such a weight . . 
And why that country bumpkin, gaping wide, 
Should Btore his surplus fat beneath his pate! 

* 

The Tattoed Man 

You sit and wait your turn .... and vaguely see 
Yourself in every youngster drifting by: 

Your sagging countenance is dull and bleak, 

And moisture glistens in each faded eye. 

You glimpse a white-topped tent back thru the 
years— 

An urchin mingling with a noisy group .... 

And hear him shout, “As soon as I grow up, 

I’ll be tattooed and join a circus troupe!” 


53 


WILL-O’-WISP 


Only last eve did that will-o’-wisp 
Called Happiness, bless my door: 
Lingered a moment, fluttering soft, 
Gilding my homely floor. 

Leaden of heart in my lonely round, 

I questioned low, “Shall I 
Put on my mantle and follow swift . . . 
Or wait while it passes by?” 

So did it dance till stars grew dim: 

Came dawn, and it rose in flight . . . 
Yet am I hoping this glory-thing 
Tempts me again . . . tonight! 


AUTUMN PRELUDE 

A lazy languor hovers in the air, 

The breezes mope, and slowly flies the bee: 
There’s scarce a ripple on the river’s breast, 

And not a rustle stirs the linden tree. 

The purple grackles voice their rasping note, 

As, flocking in the stubble, they prepare 
To form their zigzag lines at dizzy height, 

And scolding harshly, to the Southland fare. 

For Youth has had its Springtime and its June: 

Dame Summer reached perfection, weeks gone by 
And soon will Cupid, dozing in the shade, 

Be roused by rain-spikes from a frowning sky! 


54 


VINDICATION 


Through what strange quirk 
Did Winter lose his track 
And wander off? 

Now after Spring has smiled, 
Why should he swagger back 
To sneer and scoff? 

Did he catch sight 
Of willows by the marsh 
With catkin beads? 

And did his jealousy 

Bring forth this protest harsh— 

These madman deeds? 

I think perhaps 
He saw the new sun kiss 
A blue-bird’s wing: .... 

And like a jilted swain. 

He finds revengeful bliss 
In this last fling! 


GRIMACES 

In the southeast, 

the moon floats calmly up and up: 

a frozen, sulphur-hued satellite 

of the grey earth: 

and she smiles . . . 

a warped smile: 

cynical, 

sickly, 

yet sophisticated, withal. 


55 



This dead, yellow moon 
lias gazed long, 
and seen much: 
her eyes 

bulging in crater-sockets. 

She it was who watched 

three crosses on a Hill, 
and a pitiless mob . . . 

She has seen men at prayer: 
and again these same men 
slaying their fellows . . . 

She has looked on captives: 
shackled, 
helpless slaves, 
herded by brutes 
with whips and eager dogs. 

And this same yellow eye, 
with icy stare 

beheld Verdun . . . Ypres . . . the Marne. 

Ah, yes, this jaundiced satellite 
has seen much 
in long years 
of staring. 

And so she wears 

a twisted, weary grin, 

a mocking grimace: 

her cold lips curled 

in an ugly 

frozen 

leer, 

at man 

and all his doings! 


56 


A SONG OF STUBBLE 


Through the sultry silence 
of dead noon-day, 
floats the rasping tune 
of the red-winged grasshopper. 

The black-and-yellow meadow-spider, 
leaden-eyed, 
and silent as a clod, 
skillfully weaves 
a delicate geometric pattern, 
with no apparent purpose. 

Louder dins 

the shrill roundelay of the grasshopper: 
mingled anon 
with the metallic whirr 
of steel sickle-bars . . . 

On the morrow, 

this wilderness of timothy— 
trysting-place of red-winged Lochinvars— 
will lie winnowed 
and dying. 

The venomous little spider— 
still dull-eyed and mute— 
will be puffed and bloated: 
his yellow-and-black spotted sides bulging 
from a recent orgy 
of succulent viands. 


57 


The red-winged grasshopper’s song 
has given way 
to croaking of crows . . . 
that flock to feed on the parched carcasses 
of his kind, 

in the drying stubble . . . 


FAILURES 

Nearly the entire span 
of man’s allotted 
three score and ten years 
has passed by him 
on review. 

Penniless, 

a failure, 

this wrecked craft 

lies in a chaotic mass 

on life’s reef— 

hull and spars 

shattered, 

broken, 

tangled . . . 

Tell me 

how can he 
still smile? 

(Yet he does smile!) . . . 


58 


Let me point out to you 
a marked contrast. 

Yonder goes the president 
of our largest bank. 

He is rated at two millions! 

There is success for you! 

There is a man to pattern after! . . . 
****** 

What’s that you say, newsboy? 

“Horrible scandal?” 

“Awful tragedy?” 

“Millionaire banker accused by woman, suicides?” 

Great God! 

Banker Jones, 

right here in our own town! . . . 

****** 

See that old chap 

with his grandson, 
digging fish-worms? 

He seems as happy 
as a king!. . . 

This very day 

I must look in my dictionary 
and strive to find the meaning 
of that word “failure!” . . . 


59 


WILLOWS IN APRIL 


Dormant 

in every feminine breast 
is a passionate worship 
of finery. 

I believe 

there are no human exceptions 
to this. 

Years agone 

this truth was proven to me, 
when my school-teacher 
(a plain^ bleak spinster-person) 
squandered a year’s salary 
for a pearl brooch 

with which to adorn her shrunken bosom 
to the cackling horror 
or every frugal villager! 

Again I saw it; 

when my neighbor’s scrub-woman 
purloined 

a gorgeous party-gown . . . 

And here 

it crops out again: 
among all the trees 
fringing the Spring brook; 
none was more modest 
than the demure willow: 

Sombre as a nun . . . 

simple of raiment . . . 
perfect symbol 
of simplicity 
and virtue. 


60 


But even she has yielded 

to that crowning weakness 
of her sex! . . . 

You should see her now! . . . 
decked out like a demimonde 
in luxurious silken extravagant 
rare catkins of soft velvet, 
and as many emeralds 
as she can carry! 

Such a transformation— 
the hussy! 

Her virtuous mien 

is completely replaced 
by a flapperish manner: 
and she 

(my chaste little willow, 
pale and quiet) 
is brazen, 
over-dressed, 
flirtatious . . . 
and very drunk 
with April! 


61 


VERNAL PRELUDE 


I have known the icy grasp 
Of Winter’s hand; 

I have seen the blizzard’s fabric 
Clothe the land. 

I adore that red cascade 
A back-log spills; 

I could worship snow-drifts wearing 
Swan’s-down frills. 

Though I’ll miss the junco on 
My frozen lawn; 

Soon the grackles’ notes will tinkle, 
Greeting dawn. 

Then will voices from the fields 
Awake to sing; 

While a mild breeze bids the willow, 
Preen for Spring! 


THE CAMEO 

How starkly you stare 
From the shrunken breast 
Of the faded spinster 
Who wears you! 

You are like some tombstone 
Which she has raised up 
To buried love; 

A carved memorial 
To youth long dead; . . . 
And to happiness 
That never came .... 


62 


A GRAY-HAIRED BARD SPEAKS 


I see you are amazed 
That one with graying locks, 
Should touch a golden lute 
Adore the rose and phlox— 
Delight in lays of birds, 

And toy with silver words! 

But these gray strands I wear 
Speak of another day; 

When I let grief walk in 
And drive my song away: 

Now have I banished care 
Therefore my song is fair! 

I treasure deep those scars— 
And I must not forget: 

Yea, every gash and mark 
I’ll keep and cherish—yet 
My heart must be a lark 
To trill before the dark! 


63 


KINGDOMS FOR HORSES 


The old village liveryman, 
with his bronzed 
and weather-beaten face, 
looks passing like 
some fabled mariner, 
returned 

from stormjr seas. 

There is the soft, familiar flicker 
of old memories, 
shining out 
from under eyebrows 
that are like 
ragged grey hedges. 

Philosophy 

and a certain mellow humor 
are as much a part of him 
as his tobacco plug. 

I sit with him sometimes, 

tilted back in a rickety chair 
against his battered barn-door: 
listening, whittling: 
wrapped 
in deep content. 

“Not much doin’ any more 
in my business,” 
he tells me. 

“These travellin’ men 

never come nigh me for a team now, 


64 


unless the roads is bad— 
and then I tell ’em 
my horses are all out— 
damn ’em! . . . 

“I go fishin’ 

’most every day 
with A1 Forbes, 
the harness-maker. 

Al’s trade 

is all shot, too .... 

“Gen’rally, 

Dick Long, the blacksmith, 
has time 

to go along with us . . . 

“Sure, I’ll always keep the barn 
autos’ll never 
entirely take the place 
of horses . . 

Then the staccato neigh 
of a hungry horse 
drifts from the bam 
back of us . . . 
bringing back the soft light 
of old memories 
to those eyes 
that hide 

under his eyebrows . . . 

eyebrows 

that are like 

ragged grey 

hedges . . . 


65 


TO A TOAD 


I feel, borne on the breath of Spring, 

The pulsings from your throbbing throat; 
My blood, grown thick from winter’s chill, 
Flows freer with your note. 

And if e’en mating birds shall fail 
To plumb the depths of my slow heart: 
You bring a rare and subtle joy 
To help me play my part. 

I have not found that storied gem, 

Deep buried in your warty head: 

But oh, I love your chirping shrill, 

That proves grim winter’s dead! 


66 


THE BANKRUPT FARMER’S AUCTION 


It seems the township’s populace has come 
Entire, to this farmer’s auction sale: 

Some come to gossip—some to gape and j ibe; 

Some have in mind the cheese and crackers stale 
With which to gorge themselves, at call for lunch: 
They group together in a motley bunch. 

Some come in fur coats like great grizzly bears, 
While others dress for this occasion rare: 

They’ve stopped en route and paid their homage to 
The village barber, and his shears snipped hair 
From tousled heads, and then to further preen, 
New shirts of flannel and neckties are seen. 

You ask me of that farmer over there— 

Who is he that he keeps so much apart? 

You wonder why he wears this solemn mien 
And seems impatient for the sale to start, 

Ah, this for him and his much faded wife, 

Marks a new chapter in their book of life ! 

For soon as exiles they must leave this spot: 

Look—in the window pressed against the pane— 

A woman’s face, deep etched with lines of care; 
All of her years of toil now seem in vain. 

Small wonder that she fails to hide that tear— 

As rings the jargon of the auctioneer! 


67 


CAFE PARTY IDOL 


Tonight, 
you sit 

enthroned as some queen, 
among your wax marionette 
admirers; 
gorgeous 

as a French milliner’s 

pseudo 

Bird 

of Paradise!. . . 

When you charm these manikins 
with your risque tales, 
you are like an over-bold March wind, 
blowing skirts high, 
yet blinding 
brazenly curious eyes 
with dust, 
at precisely 
the right moment! 

But tomorrow— 

in the infant dawn’s 
early glimmer— 
you will remind one 
of a bit 

of flashy silk lingerie, 
much faded 
by long exposure, 
in some cheap shop 
window! . . . 


68 


VERNAL EQUINOX 


The weathercock 
is nervous— 
giving out 

little mouse squeaks— 
responding 
to the fidgety wind’s 
cajolery! .... 

The farmer, 

last evening 
scanned 
his almanac, 
to get wisdom 
from the sign 
of the Zodiac. 

Today 

his pocket knife, 

leaves its plug-tobacco flavor 

in the heart 

of a seed 

potato. 

His sky searching eyes 
glimpse that cloud— 
shaped like a coon-skin 
nailed 

on a barn-door. 

Gape wide, 
furrow. 

Soon falls 



between your jaws 
a feast 

of sliced tubers! . . . 

Come 3 rain-spike ballet; 
the dinner-bell’s 
bawling brass note 
is your cue! 

The hoe and harrow 

have made a loam carpet 
for your million 
tripping feet! .... 


THE LONE LINDEN 

There is a giant linden tree 

towering high on the gulch-scarred hill, 

like a grey sentinel 

watching 

the silver-ribbon river 
glistening and shimmering 
through the bluff-fretted gorge. 

Looming stark and bleak 

from a tangle of hazel and hawthorn, 

it seems as obvious 

as a Sioux chieftain 

in a colony of side-show dwarfs . . . 

holding itself 

thus haughtily aloof. 


70 



One wonders 

why the woodman’s keen blade 
leaves this monarch 
untouched .... 

One grows curious .... 
until one hears 
in early Spring evenings, 
the love-gurgles 

of a pair of Great Horned Owls, 
deep in the linden’s shadows. 

Then one peers 

and barely sees 
the huge nest of twigs 
the linden wears 
in the thickest tangle 
of its disheveled locks. 

But complete understanding 
is not vouchsafed to one, 
until March; 
in March there will be 
two clumsy squab owlets 
squeaking approval 
over their meal 
of fat field-mice. 

“Yes”, nods a grizzled neighbor, 

(a sage old farmer) 

“they nested here 

long before Jim Clark 

cut off that there timber . . . 

“Jim’s 

chicken-hearted !” 


71 


GENUS HOMO 


Man will worship beauty 
On his bended knees; 

Then with plow-share and ax-blade 
Biot out grass and trees. 

Great love for his brother, 

Loudly he proclaims; 

And yet this selfsame brother 
He murders and maims. 

When he sees a neighbor 
Stumble on life’s road, 

How swift he rushes past him 
With his own light load! 

And he struts with ego 
In the sun’s white rays; 

While alone in the black night 
He trembles and prays! 


72 


MEDITATION 


My spirit aches with questionings, and I am 
troubled sore; 

Please pause a moment, Mr. Bagg O’Gold: 

Say, what of all these children bending low o’er 
loom and wheel? . . . 

And what of all these hearth-stones long gone cold? 

Ah, know you of these hungry ones, my cassock- 
wearing friend?— 

Of all these souls grown gaunt and starved by 
sorrow ? 

Or have you naught to offer them, save empty 
words today? . . . 

Will there be golden dawn for them tomorrow? 

There’s Mrs. Smugg: she doesn’t need another 
string of pearls . . . 

She isn’t worth attention to her sighing: 

Nay . . . Smugg has prayed and begged all 
heaven’s pardon for his sins, 

But precious day is flying . . . flying . . . flying! 


73 


SEARCH 


One day I fared with blistered, aching feet 
Into a bedlam called by grace a town: 

I looked for Truth in market-place and street, 

Nor caught the vaguest shimmer of her gown: 

For every man I questioned shook his head, 

And none could tell me where Truth might have fled 

I asked a medic-man of high repute 

Where Truth had taken up her dwelling-place: 

He turned away his head, perplexed and mute, 

And careworn shadows crept across his face: 
Prince, priest and peasant did I question too . . . 
But not a mortal could I find who knew. 

At last my patience met its just reward: 

I stopped within a narrow street, to see 
Truth’s magic foot-prints on a tiny sward: 

Then, as I lingered, soft she called to me, 

And suddenly I came to understand . . . 

A child knelt joyously to clasp her hand! . . . 


74 


TO A BRIDE-ELECT 


You have come gliding down 
A moon-lit street; 

Silken of limb you danced, 

On blithe Youth’s feet: 

Now you have reached a place 
This path will bend— 

All tinted dreams must end! 

Thick in this curving path 
Are brambles strewn; 

Mingled with orange bloom 
And rose of June: 

Let your young eyes which see 
Each petal fair— 

Be blind to thorn and tare. 

Shun those who’d have you think 
Each tear a pearl; 

Orchids may wither ere 
Their buds unfurl: 

But heed his council well 
Who bids you look— 

In Life’s much-opened book. 

Oft does harsh discord mar 
A lute’s chaste note; 

Angry the sea betimes 
When white sails float: 

Heaven is higher found, 

Not here below— 

Nor, would we have it so! 


75 


FEBRUARY 


The bright sun’s rays shine warmer, 
While the ragged quilt of snow 
More soiled and thin is growing— 

As its tatters plainly show. 

The dainty cedar waxwing 

In her bonnet, nun-like . . .plain . 
Now yearns for cherry luncheons 
And for balmy April’s rain! 

Few bards have touched their lyres 
For this month, but I shall sing— 
Praising its weeping snow-men, 

For it paves the path to spring! 

SNOW FLURRY 

There was a giant finger ring 
Around the moon last night; 

The weathercock was nervous when 
The sky began to light; 

And long before the sun’s red ball 
Crept slowly o’er the hill— 

I saw the smoky snow-clouds float, 

And felt the East Wind’s chill. 

The blushing sun was then obscured 
And soon there sifted down, 

A silken quilt of milky snow 
To wrap the drowsy town: 

The flakes then danced like popping corn 
And fell as tiny stars— 

It gave the hills a lovely robe 
Which hid their wounds and scars! 


76 


FROZEN MARSH 

The seed pods of the lotus 
Are locked beneath the ice; 

No blackbirds in the rushes swing 
But glossy meadow mice 
Dig tiny tunnels where they seek 
The smartweed’s buried spice. 

The marsh hawk on firm pinions 
Goes veering swiftly by; 

I sense a shrill impatient note 
Voiced plainly in his cry— 

As though he longed for spring to wake 
The frog and dragon-fly! 

SUN-DOGS 

My cottage wore around its eaves, 

A brittle beard of white; 

I heard the cock upon his roost 
Crow far into the night. 

The horses stamping in their stalls, 

The creaking rafters too: 

These sounds all plainly told a change 
Of weather soon was due. 

When in the morning I arose 
And stoked my kitchen stove: 

I spied the spectrum’s colors far 
Beyond the maple grove. 

A red sun ushered in the day 
And spread its glory wide. 

Two rainbow curtains flanking it 
Like banners on each side! 

77 


> > * 


WANING WINTER 


See that stalwart white-oak tree 
Looming gaunt and bare, 

High up on the timbered knoll, 
Wearing in its hair 
A bulky nest of sticks and twigs 1 — 
Placed with owl-like care. 

And the horned owl bridegroom looks 
Solemn as a priest; 

Watching with a jealous eye— 

Shy of man and beast, 

As to his feathered bride he brings 
Sparrows for a feast. 

And the cattle daily now 
Venture more away; 

Farther in the pasture lot 
They explore by day— 

Yet late each evening filing home 
Eager for their hay! 

These and other guiding signs 
Herald Winter's end; 

Even though he bluster still, 

Soon his might he’ll spend. 

All his stormy moods abating, 

In a milder trend! 


78 


. 


WHISTLES—SEVEN A. M. 


This hour brings shrieks from steam sirens; 

With yodelings from their brass throats: 

It marks the beginning of King Time Clock’s day— 
Calling to serf-dom a grotesque array 
Of puppets .... with harsh metal notes. 

This hour sees limbs trim and silken; 

Go light-tripping, down a flint road: 

Sees also those spectres—Age, Want and Red Sin 
And Toil’s calloused fingers with circlets of tin, 
Blithe Youth too . . . still strong ’neath his load! 

This same hour marks their returnings. 

Each young morn hears sharp whistle-screams: 
The drawer of water must shoulder his yoke— 

The hewer make fagots of cedar and oak; 

But keep the grey dusk . . . for all dreams! 


70 


COLD WAVE 


The wind went on the warpath 
And its battle-cry 
Seemed to mock and chide me 
As it thundered by! 

At night I saw the sparrows 

Huddled ’neath the eaves— 
Watched a squirrel searching 
Under fallen leaves. 

I heard the black crows’ conclave 
On the woodlot hill— 
Glimpsed a muskrat feeding 
In an open rill. 

But I looked out next morning 
On a numb chill world— 

To see each friendly chimney’s 
Cheering smoke unfurled! 


80 


















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